Houdini
by Expecto-Prongs
Summary: Moriarty talks a bit with a rogue criminal, only to find that perhaps he shouldn't have over looked Sherlock's pet quite so quickly. Obsession quickly ensues. Featuring a BAMF John, a clueless Sherlock, a plot device OC (jump to chapter 6 to skip him), and an unstable stalker Moriarty. Rated T for mild violence and language. Epilogue's up, now complete.
1. There's a king on a throne

**Just a plot bunny from the crazy mind of… me… I am not British so excuse the blatant… non Britishness?**

**I do not own any Sherlock characters. Though I am obsessed with them. That ought to count for something…**

Chapter 1

"Damn it! This is not how The Game is supposed to be played!"

Jim Moriarty glared at the monitor displaying a CCTV tape. The crime, the beautiful double murder he had crafted, had just been solved again by the world's only consulting detective. And that was the point. Jim loved making Sherlock dance, and Sherlock loved the rush of a good puzzle. It was a mutually benefitting relationship in Jim's point of view. But damn it, if there was one thing that drove him up the wall, it was Sherlock's cool disinterested mask he had on. All the time. During all the cases he so generously created for him. It was… _ungrateful. _And so, so boring. To be perfectly honest, Jim really missed that manic gleam Sherlock used to get in his eye whenever he solved a case. That clever charm that made Sherlock… _not ordinary. _It had vanished two weeks ago: the gleam, the game, the _distraction. _Now he was growing bored. And he vowed to find out why.

That was what the greatest criminal mastermind in the world was doing right now. Looking through CCTV tapes from the past two weeks like a mother searching through old home videos. Trying to solve this puzzle, trying to find a common denominator between all of the recent cases, trying to find out how Sherlock could solve the most intricate of murders without even looking at the mutilated corpse, and most of all trying to figure out where the Game had gone so horribly wrong. Hours upon hours he scanned through the black and white tapes, finding patterns and tossing them aside, his eager mind tearing voraciously into the given distraction. Anything to keep him from being so damn bored. Even as he watched each tape for a third time, something niggled his subconscious, something he had overlooked. Something so horribly ordinary, he just couldn't put a finger on it. And… there it was. Jim froze the tape just at the right spot so that he could see the problem. His eye twitched imperceptibly, and nose wrinkled. It was so blatantly obvious, he doubted it was supposed to be hidden. He had, once again, overestimated his opponent. In the frame, Sherlock stood looking bored with his cell phone out, no doubt texting that idiotic detective inspector the solution to the murder. Then, there was the good doctor, hovering uselessly by Sherlock's side, and, of course, the cut up corpses of twins that weren't actually twins (my, that had cost a pretty penny to work out). All mentioned persons were happily unaware of the surveillance Moriarty set up. But then, there was one more figure, standing off to the side. It was a wraith like boy, most likely a street urchin, and he was smirking up at the camera. _Smirking! _Jim's brain went into overdrive. The boy was standing close to the two corpses, seemingly unaffected, which was unusual to say in the least. He couldn't have been over twelve years old. He was wearing worn out clothes (poor then, obviously, anyone could see that) and had one fingerless glove covering his left hand (most likely to cover some sort of gang symbol). The preteen had a large jagged scar running down his jaw bone (a brush with death then, probably an experienced fighter) and had scrawny arms and legs (not a boxer then, probably armed). All in all, he was really nothing out of the ordinary. But he had to be special, why else would Sherlock have let him onto the crime scene, why else would Sherlock let him see him? It was clear he was part of the Game now, an informant perhaps. Jim was now certain he had seen that boy in every surveillance tape over the past two or even three weeks. He was irrevocably linked to Sherlock's disinterest, therefore, a threat. Jim's fingers twitched with an insatiable urge for violence, and without his consent, his hand groped his desk and connected with a rare and valuable Ming vase a stupid "forever indebted to you" client he always seemed to attract gave him. So clingy and unappealing, so human and boring. His grasp inexplicably tightened around the vase and he hurled it against the wall, watching the shards fall to the ground with indifference. There was a knock at his door. Jim turned towards the noise with his lips curled over his teeth. On a whim, he imagined sticking one of those nice pointy shards into the sod's neck…

"Sir?" a voice rang out from the doorway. Moriarty had to visibly shake his head to rid himself of the reverie. It would not do to just murder one of his employees at this time of day. Maybe later, but not now. He had work to be done.

"I want all background information you have on this boy on my desk in two hours or someone's going to find themselves without hands!" he snarled towards the burly man at the door. Despite the man being nearly a foot taller than the Irishman, he still shuddered.

"Yes sir," he squeaked, abruptly turning away from the half insane, very angry genius standing only feet away from him. The low light in the room served to make his employer even more demonic looking than usual, which was saying something. He walked quickly away from the office, phone in hand.

Jim had taken up pacing back and forth, only stopping his relentless march to glare up at the unobtrusive figure of the boy. Sherlock had introduced a new component to the game, a very bold move on his part. Jim was determined to show the detective it was a very stupid move to make.

...

An hour and a half later, a thin folder lay on Moriarty's desk, containing a couple of pages of information on the boy of the screen. Jim grunted dissatisfied as he thumbed through the meager documents. There wasn't many options open to him with this little amount of information. What he could gather is that he was indeed homeless, and an orphan at that. He had no official name, his mother presumably died of childbirth (no one knows for sure) and the father is unknown. The boy was left in the care of Sherlock's very own homeless network, where he was raised on the streets. He has no medical records or even identity, only that he calls himself "Erik". There have been reports of him being ambidextrous, but there is no known gang that he is a part of. So basically, Jim learned next to nothing about the kid. And that made him very frustrated indeed. Sherlock obviously did a very good job picking a pawn with very little traceable background information, with help from the Iceman, no doubt. But there was still something about the boy that grated Jim's nerves. What kind of urchin picks the name Erik for himself? There must be some significance…

Jim sighed. Yet another puzzle to unravel and he was growing impatient. Research was always so boring.

...

Erik whistled tunelessly as he walked the sidewalks of London in broad daylight. Sherlock really hooked him up with this deal of theirs. He chuckled carelessly as he pat his waistband, where his newly acquired gun was resting. Just one of the many gifts that Sherlock had bestowed on him. All for the sake of a ruddy game. Erik ran a hand through his jet black hair and sighed. People could be so stupid some times. He had his own "game" he had to play with Mr. James Moriarty, and neither Sherlock nor Jim knew of it, yet. But they soon will. And all he had to do is wait, wait for the inevitable which was James Moriarty. His appearance in those crime scenes were not accidental, after all, he had supplied Sherlock with vital information for each of the murders. And he got to strategically piss one powerful criminal off while he was at it. Now, he was waiting, patiently, for Jim to become impatient enough to snatch him off the streets. Ah! Just in time… a black car rolled around the bend and pulled up next to the young boy. Two men got out, slipped a hypodermic into his neck and dragged the instantly unconscious preteen into the car. Nobody noticed the absence of one black haired, blue eyed orphan on that sunny London afternoon. And that was why, even unconscious, Erik had a smile on his lips.


	2. with his eyes torn out

**Still Don't Own… This is a tedious one... but bear with me and it will get better next chapter. I promise. **

Chapter 2

Peter looked down at the slight boy he had on his lap with a growing frown. This was a little bit ridiculous. He was hired by an elusive man known as Moriarty three weeks ago and he had already killed thirteen people. It wasn't pleasant work, but it put food on the table for his family. Since his employment with this man, he had heard a thousand outrageous rumors. His favorite was that the man was a leprechaun, but he had heard even more silly things. Such as that he had horns, red eyes, or was a Time Lord from Doctor Who. All of it was ridiculous of course. But, he had never seen or heard from the man himself, so he couldn't exactly disprove any of the gossip. Only a select few had contact with Moriarty, even fewer actually talked to him face to face. From what he had heard, he was glad he wasn't one of those poor sods.

One of the higher ups had contacted him and his business partner, Matthew, this morning with orders to trail a target. Stalking. Okay, he could deal with that. But when he asked for details, there was a pause before the assignment was given. And… he was asked to follow and abduct a street urchin. A _street urchin. _Estimated age? Twelve. Black hair, blue eyes. Scar on jaw line, about 5'1. Hardly a challenge, but it was peculiar. What did Moriarty want from an orphan?

He snapped back to the present when the boy keened in his sleep. Peter grimaced and ruffled his hand fondly through the kid's hair. He reminded him of his own sons back home. He felt a bit sorry for the preteen, but when it came down to it, he valued his own life more than this nameless boy. He frowned again, and shifted so the boy could be more comfortable on his lap. Looking over at Matthew, he saw that the man was looking uncomfortably at the boy's jaw, where the brutal, jagged scar was. It looked like it was a knife wound, and a messy job at that. It was a miracle the boy was still alive. Matthew looked away from the gruesome scar and looked intently at Peter. His eyes roved up and down, as if he were looking at his partner for the first time.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly to his comrade. Matthew worried his lip and wrung his hands together peculiarly. It must be a nervous tick, Peter reasoned. But even so, his friend was acting pretty odd. His gaze darted down to Peter's left hand, and then back up to his eyes.

"Ah, yes." He answered distractedly. He abruptly turned away to stare out the window. Peter sighed.

"It's odd, picking up young ones, huh? Do you think he's Moriarty's son or something?"

Matthew didn't take the bait, and the banter fell flat. The car was silent once more, and Peter looked down at the kid again.

"What's so special about you?" he mused, running his hand softly in the ink black hair. He missed Matthew flinch at the other end of the car. The rest of the ride was passed in uncomfortable silence.

…

Fifteen minutes passed slowly, but they finally pulled up to a small house in a nice, kid friendly neighborhood. It was a dead end, and there were a lot of nice sturdy oak trees around. A couple yards away a group of kids were collecting acorns. The last place you'd expect some nefarious to happen, but this was the address his superior had given him. Peter opened the car door, ignoring the nervous jolt Matthew gave him. The man had been on the job longer than him, Peter honestly didn't know what was eating him up.

"Take care of him, will you?" Peter sighed, shrugging the still limp form of the boy onto Matthew's lap.

"Sure." Matthew expertly scooped the boy into his arms, stooping a little to get out of the car without hitting his head on the roof. Peter turned away from the car and moved towards the house. He flipped open his mobile and dialed in the number his superior had given him. He was surprised when a accented voice picked up.

"Hello?"

"Ah, yes. I was told to call this number when…" Peter fumbled for words. Was this the wrong number? The man's accent was distracting.

"Oh good!" the voice squealed. _Squealed. _It was an undignified noise, but it sent chills down his spine none the less. "Have Matthew bring him in. You may leave." The tone of voice changed in an instant, hardening and sounding authoritative.

"Understood. Well, Goodbye then…" the phone line clicked. The man had already hung up. What a strange job he had.

He walked quickly back to the car.

"Matthew, you're going to stay here. I'm going to report back at work, and pick you up in a couple hours." He gave a jerky nod, still staring at the limp body in his arms. The little kid looked like a doll in his thick arms. It was oddly endearing. Peter leaned in slightly towards his partner.

"Listen. I think Mr. Moriarty is in that house," he said, jerking his thumb carelessly over his shoulder in the general direction of the house. "So you better get your head in the game." Matthew opened his mouth to protest but Peter stopped him with an impatient hand motion. "I don't care why or why not. Just… be careful. It wouldn't do well for my reputation to have my partner shot by my boss." Matthew smiled uneasily, not even flinching when Peter smacked him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit." The boy shifted and his eyelids began to flutter. Matthew frowned down at the preteen and tightened his grip on him.

"I'd better be off before the kid wakes up," Matthew said gruffly.

"She's all yours." Peter grumbled, climbing into the car. "Please be safe. From one friend to another."

"You have nothing to worry about." The child gave a pitiful moan and shifted again. Without another word, Matthew turned on his heel towards the unassuming house. Peter sighed and told the driver to bring him back to work. With an uneasy feeling, Peter rode far away from the house and his only friend on the job.

**Review and I will love you forever... not that any of you care about that anyways... :P**


	3. There's a blind man looking

**Hm, thanks to the reviewers~ my hat is off to you, I suppose. Anyhow, Johnny still hasn't made an appearance! For those of you who are like... who is this Erik kid? This is stupid! Where's John in this story! I'm impatient! Blah blah blah... be patient my dears, Erik will make his exit from the story, but he is a necessary evil. Hello plot device. Stick through and we'll get to the good stuff soon! Carry on!**

Chapter 3-

Matthew paused at the front step of the cozy looking house, wiping his feet on the welcome mat nervously. This all felt unnervingly domestic for a kidnapping. It didn't help that he had never seen this Moriarty character. It also didn't help that this unconscious boy looked really freaking familiar. He hoped to God it was some twisted coincidence. Looking up from the boy's slack face, he raised a fist to knock quickly on the door. His palms were slicked, lips chapped, and vision blurred. How many times should he knock? He didn't want to seem overly presumptuous in front of his boss. What if-

His nervous ramblings were cut off by a quiet voice.

"Mr. Matthew Jones?"

He gulped, slowly looking down at the preteen, fist still hovering uncertainly in mid air. The boy's eyes were open now, piercing blue eyes way too old for his age.

"How do you know who the hell I am?" he hissed, going for outraged rather than the shocked surprise he felt. The boy's mouth quirked up in a creepy half smile.

"Why, you don't recognize me?" he asked smoothly. "I would have thought you would recognize your own boss… but then again, it looks as though you've moved on now." He looked pointedly towards the door, not even bothering to mask his disgust.

"I'm not following." Matthew replied dumbly, dropping the irate facade. He was too confused to be acting. How the hell did this little kid know him? Was this some kind of sick joke? It really wasn't funny. The boy ignored him.

"I was told you were good with computers. What are doing being employed as some second rate bodyguard?" Matthew's blood ran cold.

"Oh God…"

"You probably pictured me older. You should have stayed in the organization. Then we wouldn't have to be in this situation."

"Listen squirt, I don't know what you're playing at, I don't know how you know about my past or how you even know who I am. Because I'm pretty sure-"

"You killed everyone who was involved… everyone but me of course. For someone so adept at hacking into sensitive government files I would have thought you would be smarter." Matthew's face turned red as Erik continued. "Listen. We got you out of the government's grasp, and you ran out on us. I lost a lot people. Captured and tortured to save your sorry hide. Then, you killed everyone who knew about our transactions. Which so happens to be a total of seventeen people. You erased yourself from the records, and then hired yourself out to keep a low profile. Isn't that right Mr…. Charlie Montague, wasn't it?"

"Shit!" Matthew, or Charlie, almost dropped Erik right there. "Shit shit shit!"

"All we wanted was a couple of files and you got us into a lot of trouble Mr. Montague. I could give your right back to the government. You certainly deserve it…" Charlie swallowed angrily. This punk was just an adolescent; surely he could just kill him right now-

The boy reached up and grasped his chin hard.

"Listen you idiot. You kill me and you can be sure you'll be in a lot more trouble than you are now." Weirdly enough, Charlie believed him. He didn't know why, but there was something in the intense look in the boy's eyes that made him really regret being in this situation right now. Of course, his mobile chose this moment, the climax of this confrontation with this creepy little shit, to ring really shrilly. The boy rolled his eyes. Charlie's hand shook as he reached towards his pocket, the kid still awkwardly being carried in one arm. His hand was halted in its descent gently by Erik's foot.

"That's Moriarty. He's wondering what's taking you."

"Let me answer it then." Charlie grumbled grumpily. He was really pissed at how his day had turned.

"In a second. It still has a couple more rings to go. Listen. If you don't want me to turn you over to the British government, you'll do what I say. If not, I may pull some strings and get you a scheduled visit with Mr. Holmes' extraction team." Charlie shuddered violently. The boy frowned slightly and looked up and whispered into the criminal's ear. His words were lost among the deafening rings of the phone.

…

"What is taking him?" Moriarty paced angrily in the homey kitchen, looking comically out of place. His hand fidgeted up and down the handle of a kitchen knife, and his mobile was caught in between his shoulder and his ear. He stopped abruptly and hurtled the knife at the wall. It buried itself two inches deep into the cheap wallpaper. "Why hasn't he picked up?" Jim hung up, and then redialed. Peter had called him more than five minutes ago. It didn't take an idiot to know that it shouldn't take this long. He growled as he was sent to voicemail again. Suddenly, there was a quick professional rap at the door. Moriarty sighed and hung up, turning languidly towards the noise. He quietly made his way towards the door, pausing only to wrench the knife out of the wall. God knows he loved making a scene, why not indulge himself a bit? He opened the door with a lot more force than necessary.

"Why hello~" he said sweetly, hiding the knife behind his back. The man looked really stupid; he was going to enjoy this. "I assume you're here to deliver a package?" he sounded so innocent, but his intentions were clear as he sent a pointed look at the unconscious preteen in the brute's arms.

"Mr. Moriarty?" The man said monotonously.

"Speaking!" he grinned. This was too good.

"Er- here's the kid…"

"Why, thank-" mid sentence, Moriarty whipped out the knife from behind his back and stabbed it into the man's foot. "-you. Service was a bit slow though." The sod's eyes watered, but he didn't say anything. They never did. Boring. "Well, come in." Jim gave a long suffering sigh. He pointedly acted as though nothing happened. "Search him, and bring him to the basement. Zip ties are there already." The man, what was his name? Manny? Gave a swift nod and limped over to the stairs leading to the sound proof basement. It was like something from a fairytale. Jim took a moment to revel in the surreal feeling of living in a horror movie. He smirked.

…

As soon as Charlie made it down to the bottom of the stairs, Erik opened his eyes. He stared up at Charlie as he performed a cursory frisk, mostly for show. Wouldn't want to ruin the game this early…

Charlie pointedly ignored the half dozen knives he encountered on the boy's person. There were probably more of them too. This kid was pretty legit. The boy gestured subtly towards the belt he was wearing, and Charlie removed the gun stored there. The preteen nodded in assent. He put the gun on the table in the middle of the room, and then lifted the boy up and placed him in the uncomfortable metal chair. Erik's head lolled forward convincingly, the very picture of a perfectly unconscious individual. Charlie carefully tied his as directed by the boy earlier, then rubbed his face stressfully. He ruffled the boy's hair and retreated a couple steps, surveying his work. It looked convincing. The preteen gave a small nod. Charlie felt admiration rear up unbidden. He had to hand it to the kid, he had balls.

"Good luck kid." he said quietly, making his way back up the stairs, any animosity between them vanishing with every step he took. He could have been imagining it, but he thought he heard a quiet 'thank you' come from the depth of the dank basement. Thus Charlie Montague, notorious murderer and hacker, swiftly entered and then exited Erik's life in merely thirty minutes.

**Don't forget to review fellow Sherlockians! Remember, I love you all, even if you hate me and my crappy OC. Be strong, the end is nigh? **


	4. for a shadow of doubt

**Hey everyone! Before I start the story, I just wanted to thank my two reviewers. Yes, two. Yippee! (I hope you can hear the sarcasm).**

**Thanks VaticanCameos who thinks my idea is cool. Yes, that's right. My idea is cool. And, apparently, this person doesn't write very many reviews. So, I'm honored.**

**And, thank you Pachax, I'm sorry I distracted you from your studies. Good luck!**

**Alright! Now that I am done with that OVERWHELMING list of reviewers… onwards!**

The tension was palpable down in the cramped basement at Moriarty's… house? Base? Erik really doubted the "most dangerous criminal the world had ever seen" lived here. So, where is here? Erik couldn't really see anything, and there was no one to ask. He was alone.

Jim sat in a cherry stained chair upstairs, directly above where his captive was currently sitting. He had to figure out the best way to go about this. He could go for the shock factor and go down himself. But, he really didn't want to get his hands dirty, especially with a little piece of dirt he picked up off the street. On the flip side, this was _Sherlock _business. He didn't want some idiot screwing things up. Well, no need to break the trend. He would send a lackey down. It was just a kid, after all.

Erik heard the fumbling of the lock a few yards away from him. When the door opened, he could hear, rather than see, that it wasn't Moriarty coming in to check on him. Steps too heavy, movements too clumsy. How… disappointing. No matter. He would get Moriarty down here soon.

Jim had moved into his office area, where he had booted up the surveillance system he had installed downstairs. He may not want to get his hands dirty, but he _was _interested in the proceedings. This boy had information. He just knew it.

A light flickered on right above him, and Erik felt his pupils contract at the sudden light. He blinked a couple times, trying to regain normal vision.

"Cliché" he murmured quietly.

"Excuse me?" the man asked, standing directly above him. He was rather tall. So, Moriarty was going for the intimidation factor. Predictable. Erik let his eyes sweep the perimeter of the room. Checking each niche in the wall for the tell tale glare of a camera. He didn't see anything. So, he went for the next best thing.

"Solas do mo toitíní, a dhuine uasail?*" He spoke as softly as he could for the man not to hear, but loud enough for any listening deviced.

"What?" The man said, clearly puzzled. Erik made sure to cough very exaggeratedly. He said it again, his voice raspy.

"Solas do mo toitíní, a dhuine uasail?" The man was clearly agitated, and he leaned in very close to Erik, his ear only a centimeter from his mouth. Erik leaned forward and bit the man's ear. Hard.

"Ow! What the hell?" The man jerked back violently, practically tripping over himself. His hand flew up to his ear, and came back red. And then, what Erik had counted on. The man glanced subconsciously at a shadowy corner of the room. It was a fraction of a second, but Erik caught it. _That was where the camera was. _The tall man was now disoriented and very angry. Erik wondered whether this was the best idea ever…

The next punch came quickly, but the orphan was ready. It hit him squarely in jaw, throwing his head sideways violently. Erik clacked his jaw back and forth, making sure nothing was broken. Nothing was, but his mouth tasted coppery. He spat out a bit of blood onto the floor. The man was backing away, and walking quickly out the door. Erik made sure to look over at the camera and grin widely for the audience before spitting out a bit more blood. He must have bit his cheek without noticing.

Moriarty stared at the screen, wondering what the hell had just happened. The kid was now grinning creepily at the camera, a bit of red tinting his teeth for effect. It took a couple of seconds, but Jim worked out what the urchin had done. _He had tricked the lackey into giving away the location of the camera. _By speaking… Gaelic? What? The boy must have known he would have understood… but how? And he had bitten Andrew's ear. Obviously he was dealing with something a little more complicated than he had anticipated. Sherlock had obviously taught his little pawn a couple tricks. Well, two could play that game. But that left the message. What had the boy meant by that? 'Light my cigarette, sir?' Moriarty's frown grew into a scary grin, one that matched Erik's. He loved puzzles.

**Advanced apologies for the weird Gaelic thing. Okay, I used google translate. Guilty as charged. I hope no one is offended or anything. I guess it could either mean 'Light my cigarette, sir?' or 'a light for my cigarette, sir?' That's what I wanted it to mean, at least. I know Google translate is really stupid, so again, apologies to those who care. And also. THE LENGTH! It's so… short. *sobs* Well, it seemed like a good place to end it.**

**11-6: It has come to my attention through an anonymous reviewer that the correct term is Gaelic, not Irish. So I've changed it. **


	5. There's a rich man sleeping

**Thanks for the reviews everyone! Oops, wait. That was my other story. I got no reviews for this one. My bad! Haha, sorry for the mix up.**

**Disclaimer: This is the sad tale of a fandom addled girl who prays to her Godtiss every night that she may someday own BBC Sherlock. Her prayers have so far gone unanswered, but she's workin' on it. So for now, I own nothing.**

**A bit of language in this chapter again folks. Sorry… but not really! ;)**

Chapter 5:

Moriarty's bodyguard needed three stitches in his ear. It wasn't as if he cared, he was still working out the riddle Erik had given him. The boy hadn't looked from the camera once, not since he had been left alone nearly three hours ago. Jim got up and paced a bit before sitting back down with a huff. He was getting bored.

Erik knew he wouldn't be down alone for much longer. How long can a hyperactive psycho stay alone and not stimulated before he snaps? It had been a few hours at least, and Erik knew he was bored, so Moriarty must be practically running up the walls. He gave a snarky wink to the camera before hunkering down for a potentially long wait.

James Moriarty had decided that the message was purely meaningless; something the little brat had probably picked up off the streets. Nothing special about that. The twit was probably just as ordinary as everyone else. However, deep in the dark recesses of his ever whirling mind, Jim hoped it was not so. With Sherlock being so boring lately, he had nothing to distract him from his dull business. Another puzzle, however fleeting, was appreciated. He didn't trust another lackey to screw with his new entertainment, so he made a fateful decision. He decided to get his hands dirty for once and visit the boy himself. Moriarty grinned and picked up a kitchen knife. This was going to be _fun._

Erik finally broke his staring contest with the camera when he heard the door rattle. Grinning manically, he licked his lips and clenched his fists. He could tell by the way the door opened deftly that this was it. This was the man he wanted to talk to. It hadn't been easy, getting on Sherlock's radar so he could get on Moriarty's, but it was so worth it. This was going to be _fun._

Jim felt his pulse start to race the way it always did when something interesting was about to happen. This feeling was usually reserved for his encounters with Sherly, or when a particularly interesting job had come along. But these times were few and far in between. It felt good to have a different subject for his frightening intellect to focus on. He could feel his mind whirring at a thousand miles an hour; where it would hurt most to strike, what words he could string together to cause the most fear. He grinned down at the defiant blue eyes staring up at him. The infernal boy still had a smirk plastered on his face. Show time.

"It was awfully rude of you to bite Andrew in the ear the way you did." He said sorrowfully. "He had to get three stitches." He made sure the knife was easily seen, but not truly in the picture. Not yet.

"Well, it got you down here, didn't it?" Erik's face remained impassive, coolly indifferent, but his eyes danced. He was enjoying this as much as Moriarty was.

"Ah! So it speaks!" He ruffled the teen's inky hair affectionately. "Very Good!" Erik jerked out of his grasp. "Oops! Touchy!" Jim grinned sickeningly. The boy said nothing, but he jerked his shoulders sporadically. Jim watched with morbid fascination as a couple of drops splattered to the dirty floor below. What the hell? There was a couple of loud pops and cracks from stiff muscles, but Erik finally managed to get his hands out of the binds behind his back. He calmly moved them forward onto his lap as though nothing happened.

"Tha's better." he said, ignoring the shocked flicker in the Irishman's eyes. His hands were bloody and covered with shallow cuts, but he showed no signs of discomfort. He did rub his wrists a couple of times though.

Moriarty's mind worked quickly. The cuts were made by a knife, which Erik must have somehow managed to sneak in. Judging by the indents in the teen's wrists, the zip ties had not been applied correctly, which indicated an inside job. It must have been that idiot Matthew. Jim rolled his eyes. He must have pissed the man off a little too much when he stabbed him in the foot.

"Making friends with my lackeys? That hardly seems fair." Moriarty gave an exaggerated frown. "You wound me, turning Matthew against me like that."

A musical laugh rang through the basement. It was creepy, the laugh didn't really seem to match the boy's voice.

"Oh, you mean Charlie Montague? I'm afraid he was always on my side, Mr. Moriarty." Erik grinned wolfishly.

_That name sounded familiar… _ah, yes. Now he remembered. That man had disappeared of the criminal map a couple years ago. What was he doing with an urchin? Maybe he's working with Sherlock?

As if reading his mind, Erik spoke again.

"A magician never reveals his secrets Mr. Moriarty." That sounded like another riddle. Jim filed this away for later inspection. "Um, actually, can I call you Jim?"

"Only if I can ask you a few questions." Erik's eyes narrowed slightly.

"If a few is three, then I accept."

"Clever!" Jim's smile came back quite suddenly, a predatory look that usually scared the shit out of his captives. All he saw in Erik was the same expression, however, not fear._Delightful! _Moriarty thought gleefully, resisting the urge to rub his hands together. This boy, Erik, was going to be a tough one to crack. But he would, eventually. They always did. "For one, what have you been doing with my dear Sherly?" Might as well get the important stuff out of the way first, so he could play later.

"You still think this about that twat?" Erik snarled, much to Jim's surprise. "Well, I'll answer your question anyways. It's only fair, is it not? Well, I passed on information to the junior Holmes using the Homeless Network and some… personal contacts. He wanted to do it to irk you, but I could tell that he wasn't having any fun anymore. In return, I got a nice pack of cigarettes and a new gun to reward me for my efforts." He said bitterly. "But that's not really why I did it, Jim. I knew you were watching him, I knew it far before _he _did. And well, I wanted to talk to you. I've been watching you for a long time, Mr. Moriarty. And it was difficult to get on your radar. I knew I couldn't come to you, so I just had you… come… to…me!" Erik was smiling gleefully by the end, and Jim's head was spinning. This was a bit more complicated than he originally thought. But it was oh so intriguing. There was still a possibility that the boy was lying, that this was one big joke set up by Sherlock, but the look in the boy's eyes told differently. This was a separate puzzle, one starring himself, not Sherlock. Jim didn't know whether to be elated of irked.

"Well, how old are you then Erik?" he asked in a sing song voice. Jim decided on a weird combination of the two. It gave the illusion that he was very unstable, which generally served to scare people even more.

"19. Last question Mr. Moriarty." Erik was full out grinning now. He knew what Jim was going to ask next. And he was looking forward to it.

James Moriarty narrowed his eyes. The boy looked no older than 12. But why would the boy lie? He didn't have time to ponder anymore, because his mind had already produced the last question. It was one of the first he had, all the way back from when he was first looking at the boy's file. The boy shifted uselessly in his chair, trying to get blood flowing back into his legs, which were bound tightly. The boy's eyes drifted down towards his pants pockets, and he seemed to think for a little bit. He finally reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of expensive cigarettes, no doubt the ones Sherlock gave him. He smiled sardonically before pulling one out. He looked up at Moriarty and laughed quietly.

"Your body guard didn't have a light…" His eyes were laughing. "Do you mind?" Jim huffed before pulling out a lighter from his shirt pocket and expertly lighting Erik's cigarette. The boy took a deep drag before sighing contentedly. "Working for Sherlock was hell, but this is a lot better than the crap you get on the street." He smiled. "What was your last question?" He took the cigarette and took a couple more drags before throwing it to the ground and smothering it with his heel.

"What is your real name?" Jim rocked forward on the balls of his feet imperceptibly, fiddling with the knife carelessly. The boy threw his head back and laugh deeply.

"Why I knew you would ask that you son of a bitch!" Erik cackled. "I don't have a real name, I was left for dead on the streets. But I'm known by this name… Erik Weisz!" The boy had a crazed gleam in his icy calculating eyes as he laughed again.

_Well Damn._


	6. on a golden bed

**And here we are folks! The exit of Houdini and the enter of the true plot! Hello John... finally! Thanks for reading up until this point, this is where it starts getting good! For your information, I created this story as a prequel to a story I have in the works, 'Unburied'. This will feature a lot of BAMF John. A lot. Yup. So, read on, dear readers, and leave crit. I love the crit.**

Chapter 6:

The boy's head lolled backward, his eyes never leaving Moriarty's.

_Well Damn. Why didn't I see this sooner?_

"All the evidence was pointing in this direction. I'm surprised you didn't put it together sooner. I'm a bit disappointed to be honest," Erik said, picking at his fingernails nonchalantly.

Moriarty was paralyzed. He could hit his head against a wall right now. How could he have not seen it? Sure, the boy was a little younger than expected, but age doesn't necessarily matter. You don't have to be old to be ruthless.

His mind ran through all the events leading up to this point.

_…had one fingerless glove covering his left hand…_

_…What kind of urchin picks the name Erik for himself? There must be some significance…_

_"A magician never reveals his secrets Mr. Moriarty…"_

The boy had practically given it away with that last hint. A magician never reveals his secrets? That practically screamed double meaning. But, what was the past is in the past. Since he happened to have the leader of a prominent crime syndicate at his mercy, might as well ask a few questions.

"Houdini," Jim said, grinning as he said the name. It fit the boy well. "The shadowy leader of an underground crime organization. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He cocked his head to the side and let his words lilt on their own accord. The boy sighed dramatically.

"On business, I'm afraid," he lamented. He moved his head to the side so that his neck cracked. His eyes turned hard. "Here to discuss something on behalf of all of the Homeless Network." His lip curled upwards, all traces of mischief vanished. He had had his fun, now it was time to get his point.

"Oh?" Jim asked. He didn't know that the crime network was intertwined with Holmes's Homeless Network, and he doubted Sherlock did either. It had the sense of being very covert.

"We're not very happy Mr. Moriarty. Not happy at all. Since you began your pathetic cat and mouse game with Sherlock Holmes, you've been disrupting many of our own operations. Why, that last explosion during the Great Game you two play? It killed a lot more people than mentioned on the news," he said angrily. "A great many more people. We had to cover things up for weeks. Assassins, higher ups, family. Dead, Mr. Moriarty. Millions of quid in valuable assets. Just because you're bored." He spat.

"You're not the only criminal network on the board!" Moriarty roared, suddenly furious. "I could crush you. I could crush you so fast that you wouldn't even know what hit you."

"It seems as though you underestimate the extent of our operations." Erik said calmly.

"It seems as though you underestimate _mine._" There was tense silence for a moment. "Erik." The boy's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything. "What's to stop me from killing you right now?" he purred, fingering the knife in his hands deftly. He touched Erik's shoulder with it, the point digging lightly into his shirt. Erik stared straight ahead, not even looking slightly scared.

"It seems as though you underestimate the extent of our operations," he said again cryptically. With alarming accuracy, Moriarty's knife slashed down towards Erik's left hand, shredding the glove that covered it. The covering faded away, revealing a truly alarming sight. The boy's hand looked as though it had been stuck in a fire. The skin was pink and shiny, and a couple of knuckles were crushed. As soon as it was revealed, Erik snatched his hand away. Jim only got a quick look at it, but it was enough.  
>It was a lot worse than even the most terrible rumors. The one Houdini didn't manage to escape from unscathed. Mycroft Holmes.<p>

"You go too far," Houdini hissed, his face going cold. His hands flew up under his shirt, coming back with two knives. He leaned down and cut away the bindings on his legs and jumped up quickly. It all happened in seconds; Jim barely registered what was going on. Erik grabbed his knife hand and twisted it, causing him to drop the weapon. His surprisingly strong arms crossed over his windpipe, not tight enough to choke him, but enough to make it uncomfortable. The edge of one of Erik's knives pressed lightly into his throat.

"Nothing's stopping me from calling in some thugs to pound you, you know," Jim said, seemingly unaffected. He shifted slightly, testing his boundaries. Erik gave no leeway, but didn't tighten either.

"Listen Moriarty," he growled, dropping honorifics. "I could easily snap your neck. You certainly deserve it. But I won't. It's rude." He sneered and let go of the Irishman slowly, slinking back to the chair and sitting down as though nothing happened. He looked at Moriarty expectantly. Jim indulged him.

"Well, what happened there?" he gestured towards the teen's mutilated hand.

"Mycroft Holmes happened. I had to cover a lot of loose ends after my employees died in that damn explosion of yours… and I attracted some rather unwanted attention." Jim's eyes narrowed.

"I'm pretty sure that's not legal." He didn't really care about legality, but he was curious.

"That man," he spat, "is practically the British government. He can get away with some questionable interrogations." He sniffed arrogantly. "My network eventually found him though and got me out… but not before some rather unfortunate damage to my hand."

"So, you went through all this trouble just to warn me not to interfere anymore?" Jim rolled his eyes. "I'm not impressed." Erik smiled wanly.

"Despite our rough start Jim, I'm not your enemy. I had to go through hell working with Mycroft's arrogant prat of a brother. It was really hard not to kill him, honestly."

"But you didn't…"

"Because I honor other people's claims Mr. Moriarty." Houdini's eyes were dancing again. "He's your adversary." His mouth quirked up into a half smile.

"I appreciate it… Erik," Jim said slowly.

"Besides, I have a pretty big tie to your organization. Do you know how many people I've directed here to work for you? Criminals and homeless genius that came to me for a fresh start… I sent them over to you." Jim frowned.

"How many?"

"Enough." Jim contemplated this and decided it didn't matter.

"So, if not just to tell me to back off, what business do you have in my humble abode?" the consulting criminal asked while walking away from Erik. He grabbed a chair from a corner and set up opposite of the boy, sitting down gracefully.

"I really do respect your work Mr. Moriarty," he said, his brow crinkling in concentration. "So I came to give you some advice."

"Shoot," Jim said, easing back into his chair casually.

"Mr. Holmes," Erik licked his lips, "I mean the younger one... Sherlock...you were too quick to overlook his partner."

"The doctor?"

"Precisely." Houdini moved to the edge of his seat, exactly the opposite of the way Moriarty was sitting. His knee was bouncing with excitement, in fact, his whole person radiated it. "Among other occupations, of course." He had a sly look on his face.

"Explain."

"Well, he's not what he appears to be," he said enigmatically.

"Just spit it out," Jim snarled. He was growing impatient.

"John Watson, that sly dog," Erik cackled, "used to be just... like... you... and … me." Nothing changed in Moriarty's position, but Erik was pleased to see there was an interested gleam in the Irishman's eyes. "I suspect he still is, actually. It's just buried."

"Supposing this was true," Moriarty said casually, leaning forward a fraction. "How would you know?"

"He was a freelance assassin, very learned in many areas. Doctoring, marksmanship, math and science; you name it, he probably could do it. He didn't have a name back then, about ten years ago, I think it was. He had black hair then, not sandy blond. He was picking apart our organization," he paused here, licking his dry lips.

"Mycroft?" Moriarty questioned, his interest peaked.

"That's what we thought at first. The leader at the time, Romulus, finally got his hands on him. We questioned his relentlessly, we had our most sadistic interrogators on the job."

"What did you learn?" Erik laughed dryly.

"Only that he had an impossibly high threshold for pain. He got away before we learned anything else. But not before we gave him a token of our affections." He smiled, patting his shoulder, the one where John's legendary war wound was located.

"So how do you know it wasn't Mycroft?"

"Two months later, he was taken into custody. Apparently he was trying to take Mycroft out of power for an anonymous client. He got pretty far along, too, until he was caught. That's where the genius assassin died and John Watson was born. He escaped the elder Holmes' grasp and then fell off the criminal map. The only reason why I knew John Watson was the assassin from a decade ago is because when I was working for Sherlock to try to find you, John was there. He may have gained a little weight and dropped the beard and black hair, but I'd know those eyes anywhere."

"And he fabricated himself a life, how fascinating!" Jim rubbed his hands together.

"Don't underestimate him, yeah? He's a fantastic actor. Acted all nice and stuff towards me even though I helped put a gun to his shoulder all those years ago."

"And Mycroft never noticed John was the no-name assassin?"

"Oh, he had his suspicions. But John's background is impeccable. Besides, he seems to be off duty now, so, why not let him go free?"

"But you suspect he's not?"

Erik grinned. "Once a killer, always a killer, Mr. Moriarty. You, of all people, should know that. I think he's just buried in there, under all of those jumpers and tea. Wouldn't it be fascinating if we could bring the criminal back out?"

"Sounds like fun."

"Well, I'd love to help you with that, but I should make myself scarce. Being around you may attract Mycroft's attention again and I'd rather not push my luck," he smiled lopsidedly. "And I'm pretty sure John isn't too fond of me either. I'd rather not be killed by a trained freelance assassin. I have a business to run. Good luck." They both stood.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you Mr. Houdini." Jim smiled genuinely. They both shook hands and Erik made his way towards the door.

"Keep in touch," Erik called as he left.

Moriarty couldn't believe he had been so wrong. If Erik was one to trust, he had been focusing on the wrong person. It was Watson who was the genius, and Sherlock who was the idiot pet being played for a fool. This is going to be _fun._

__**MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA Hello obsession, goodbye OC! **


	7. There's a skeleton choking

**Heh heh… Hey… everybody… *pokes head out from behind a door* WAIT! Please don't throw tomatoes! I know it's been a while… okay, a long long while… but look! I come bearing excuses! I got a job and I got sick. And I have been watching Supernatural every spare moment of my days. *Grins sheepishly*. But woah! While I was gone, I got… popular? What on earth? **

**Thanks loads to everyone who reviewed :D Wow! I know there's not enough BAMF John out there without porn attached (and this is why, folks, I have grown to master the art of scrolling) but wow! I never expected this at all!**

…

**Logicandwonderland: Wow, I never even thought of it that way! It's supposed to be Erik as in Houdini, but kudos for using your head! :D**

**Puretorture27: Unburied is in the works and shall be posted right here on good ol' fanfiction as soon as this story is done. Glad to know you're interested! **

**Tipear: My God I love you. Thank you so much :)! You're really awesome, and don't worry, I don't have that low of self esteem… when I said this story was a fail, I meant I had stuff planned for it that I found out later made no sense and was physically impossible, so I hit a brick wall. I don't let number of reviews dictate my writing! Though it is nice to get them :P**

**FrozenDreamBox: Thanks for the compliment! Who doesn't love a badass John? There's not enough of it out there.**

**Mollyisyourgirl: Hello Molly dear! Nice to hear from you again. It's been a while. Thanks for the reviews there dear. **

**Junkie Monkey: I'm glad you like assassin John :3 I was hoping I wasn't pushing too hard with his trained killerness. Haha**

**Bookgirl 121: It's always nice to have a fellow Sherlockian on board with my writing! Thanks so much for the feedback and the wonderfulness of your review. I even got a smiley! I'm glad my story made you smile! :D**

**Bookworm0902: Glad you like the twistiness. As I said in my PM I sent you, Unburied is in the works, but this story still has a bit of juice left. Once this one ends, the next will pick up post-Reichenbach and after the hiatus. **

**That makes a grand total of… 8 reviews! Wow! Anyways, onwards everyone, to the next chapter!**

…

It's official. Jim Moriarty is pissed off.

Between throwing false leads to Mycroft, keeping Sherlock docile with a couple stray cases, and actually doing his job as a consulting criminal, he had found next to nothing about Johnny. Sure, he had the flat bugged in ways even "the Great" Sherlock couldn't uncover, but that just wasn't _enough. _He wanted to take Watson apart and see what made him tick. It was infuriating that he couldn't even get close enough to talk to him. And that was why Jim Moriarty was pissed.

It had been months since Erik, or Houdini, had stood up, shook hands with him and left. Since then, Jim had spied on Johnny any chance he got. He noticed little idiosyncrasies he had previously overlooked in order to study Sherlock's antics: cool disinterest towards neighborhood undesirables, the way he clenched his teeth and twitched his gun hand when dealing with ordinaries, the way he rolled with whatever crazy crap Sherlock managed to dish out. And how much he cleaned that gun of his, of course. He did it in the safety of his room… closed the door, locked it, and took the gun from beneath his pillow before oiling it with professional stoicism that didn't quite match the background of an 'adrenaline junkie war dog'. It was too practiced and meticulous. But despite these numerous tells, Watson hid his past well. Johnny's little quirks could be passed off as war veteran any day. Even Sherlock fell for it. But, if you know the truth, it was apparent that there was more to Johnny Boy than he was letting on. Well, at least that's the way _he _saw it.

Besides keeping tabs on Johnny, Jim also took great pains in taking peeks at Mycroft once in a while. The Iceman had Watson's file out a lot more than he had previously noticed, almost as much as he had the Moriarty file out. How could he have been so unobservant? Did his obsession with Sherly really cloud his focus that much that he didn't notice anything else? How dull. He really had to work on that whole "obsession" thing of his. Obviously, being changeable wasn't his only weakness.

Jim looked at his watch with general disinterest, noting that he had an hour until his next business meeting. It was also about the time John got out of the surgery. He had just enough time to take a peek at John's commute home.

Jim flicked on the surveillance devices and quickly pinpointed where the ex-assassin was. He was about half way back to Baker Street, casually walking. That in itself was strange, usually John took the tube home, unless he had a spat with Sherlock. But Jim hadn't noticed anything off in the cozy Holmes/Watson flat. So what was John planning? He had his hands deep in his jeans pockets, shoulders slouched unconsciously. He was walking slowly, which was also uncommon. John Watson always had somewhere to be… catering to Sherlock's ever changing whims, rushing off to meet one of his boring girlfriends, or making his way to work. John Watson never loitered unless he had a reason to.

Jim was drawn away from his musings by a sudden movement on the screen. There was a small group of three muggers trailing John quietly, making motions to one another. Jim shifted in his seat minutely. Now _this _was interesting. What would John do in the face of danger?

The men split apart, two went down an alley and one continued behind John. The blond showed no sign of recognizing the threat behind him; he just continued walking in his slow, slouched gait. As if on signal, the man behind John jumped him and pulled him into the alley with little resistance. Jim would have disappointed with the lack of struggle if he hadn't noticed the lack of surprise and fear on John's face. He rubbed his hands together and typed in some commands into his laptop. This was going to be good, he just knew it. The picture on the screen changed, showing a dirty alley with four occupants. Three muggers, one with a gun and two with knives, and the apparently unarmed John Watson, who was currently in a choke hold by one of the knife muggers. Jim remembered being in a similar position with Erik and smirked. It hadn't been comfortable.

John's eyes flickered a little as he surveyed his attackers. The mugger with the gun stood in front of him, he gun pointed lazily at John, and there was the mugger behind John, keeping him in the choke hold. The third mugger was at the mouth of the alley, making sure no one came in or out. It was a crude, but affective way to get people's money. The gun man said something, probably something along the lines of 'give me your money or I'll blow a hole in that head of yours'. John nodded and reached into his back pocket carefully. The muggers exchanged grins and made their fatal mistakes. The choke hold loosened minutely and the gun man put his hand out, expecting a fat wallet. That's far from what he received from Mr. Watson. It happened so quickly, that Jim wished he had taped it so he could watch it again. John pulled out a knife and sliced at the mugger's arm that was holding him, simultaneously stomping heavily on his foot. The mugger threw back his head and howled, allowing John to shove him into the mugger with a gun. Caught off guard, the man dropped the gun, which John picked it up quickly and emptied of bullets. By then, the third mugger was running to his friends' aid, knife brandished clumsily. John dropped the gun before grabbing the mugger's wrist and twisting it until there was sure to be a satisfying crack of broken bone, grinning manically as the knife clattered from the man's useless hand. As if nothing happened, John stepped out of the alley and continued his walk home.

Jim leaned back in his chair, grinning crazily. That was pretty entertaining. Definitely not war veteran material, not an army doctor at least. There was no way an army doctor would be capable of that. Jim turned his attention back towards the screen, which showed that had Watson stopped in the middle of the sidewalk looking at his phone. He dialed and pressed talk. The Irishman rolled his eyes; no doubt the man was calling Sherlock about his near mugging. How boring. He turned away from the screen, pondering. How could someone be so ordinary one second, and be so _extraordinary _the next? It was making his head swim. And he thought _he _was changeable.

Mid thought, his phone began ringing shrilly. He looked at his watch, and he still had fifteen minutes until his meeting. Curious, he picked up his phone.

"Hello?" There was silence on the other end. Moriarty grit his teeth in annoyance. "Listen, you're interrupting-" He was cut off abruptly.

"I know you're watching." It was the last voice he had expected. Jim's breath hitched. He turned slowly back to the screen, only to see John staring straight at it. How did he even know his number?

"Johnny! What a pleasant surprise! How's your master treating you?"

"Listen to me you insane freak. Stop digging, stop digging right now. If you don't stop, I swear I will find you and kill you myself."

"Without Sherlock?" Moriarty asked innocently.

"Damn it! Yes, without Sherlock! You- you keep him out of this. He doesn't know about me, hell, he hardly knows anything at all. Let's keep it that way, shall we?" Jim pouted. That's no fun.

"No informing Sherlock of who you are? What you've done? That's a little too much to ask when you aren't in the position to make demands, dear." There was silence on the other end for a moment.

"I know where Sebastian lives, and I know you owe him." The line went dead, and he turned towards the screen again. John was scowling, and he flipped the camera the bird before walking away. Oh dear.

Jim didn't really know what to say to that last comment. He honestly didn't. He wasn't too close to the colonel, but he didn't want him dead either. If he ever got into Mycroft's hands, well, let's just say the man was a bit of a liability. But, he couldn't kill him either. Jim owed him, and if there was one thing he hated, it was breaking life debts. James Moriarty was a liar, a thief and a murderer. But he had class.

***Face palm* Oh God, don't ever, ever make me write a fight scene like that again. Ooooo~ that was painful to write… and probably painful to read. Sorry everyone! The whole Sebastian thing will be explained in the sequel. It's important later, so don't worry. I'm not going insane and inserting randomness into this story. Not too much anyways. Thanks again to all the reviews, story alerts, favorites and author alerts. Love you all!**


	8. on a crust of bread

**Oops! It's not a cold, it's bronchitis! I'm in house arrest basically now. No more work and no more friends. So, you can thank the sickness for the quick update! ;) **

**Thanks to Tipear, bookworm0902, and puretorture27 for the reviews! You guys are the best! **

**By the way, I haven't said this in a while but I don't own! This is for enjoyment only. Also, this is unbetaed, so please excuse the mistakes. **

Chapter 8

While Jim was seriously impressed with John's knowledge of him and his past (and a little flattered, maybe, but he was never going to admit that to anybody), it wasn't good for his image to have an ex-assassin traipsing around spewing secrets that technically _no one was supposed to know about. _It took about five minutes after his impromptu chat with John to realize that since Johnny had decided to call him, he now had access to his number. Of course, he _could _have gotten it off someone else (it was relatively easy to charm people into thinking he knew their friends) but, hey, he wasn't going to complain. He was just going to have to speed through this next meeting quickly so he could get back to play with his new toy.

0o0o0o0o

_hank, everett, james, _john, _peter, andrew, _John, _matthias, _JOHN.

He's John, he's Dr. John Watson, the ex-army doctor who can't hold down a girlfriend and goes on crazy adventures with his flat mate Sherlock and has chats with the British government and buys the milk at Tesco's and has a crazy psychopath on his tail who knows he's not John and knows who he is and knows what he's done and knows he's an assassin… _no. _He's John _now, _to hell with what the crazy Irishman thinks he knows. He's not an assassin _anymore. _He's Dr. John Watson, who _saves _people every day and has, _had, _a psychosomatic limp. He doesn't kill people anymore, he doesn't stitch himself up in the dark of a shabby motel anymore, he doesn't have knives in his shoes, he doesn't have dark hair and darker eyes and stubble from not shaving for a while and he most certainly. Doesn't. Smoke. Anymore. He's Dr. John Watson. Nothing more.

He knows that. He knows who he is now. Not a brilliant killer, the best they'd seen in years, just a normal civilian. Not a genius who writes up equations on the walls of the motel he's staying in and figures out which chemicals would knock a person out fastest without killing them and then makes said chemicals on the stove using cleaning supplies and a makeshift chemistry set. He's not. He knows that. Then why, _why _when he was talking to Moriarty on the phone, did he feel that old adrenaline spike and felt like the nameless threat he used to be? Why did he want to go get his weapons from where he hid them and run away and go on crazy (even crazier than the one's with Sherlock) adventures again? He was getting too old, he had decided that when Mycroft Holmes had captured him, looked him straight in the eye and told him that he was a puzzle like he had never seen before, and he and his team would enjoy taking him apart _piece by piece. _He was done. Really done this time, not sort of done like he was when Houdini and 'Homeless Network' had shot him in the shoulder, really done. Why?

"John!" Sherlock shouted into their flat. "Lestrade just texted me. Are you coming?" And all John wants to tell him is that he's not really John, he's a runaway assassin hiding from justice, all he wants to do is help with Sherlock's experiments because, really? They're right up his alley and he'd love to make awesome deductions too because he _can. _But he can't, because his brother is Mycroft Bloody Holmes and that's the very person he's running from. So instead he says,

"Can't Sherlock, I have bronchitis remember?" Which is foolish really, of course he doesn't have bronchitis, he's just trying to keep off Moriarty's radar for a while, but Sherlock being Sherlock falls for it instantly.

"Laters." He calls before turning on his heel, still hunched over his phone, and is it just John's imagination or does he see a flash of hurt on Sherlock's face? Probably not. And of course there's no 'Get well' from Sherlock because he's Sherlock and John tries not to be too hurt by it anyways.

Why?

0o0o0o0o

After three solid hours of people bickering, Moriarty rolls his eyes and gets up from his chair, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

"If you don't come to an arrangement within…" he paused to glance lazily at his watch, "…thirty minutes, I will personally have all of you killed." Everyone's staring at him with wide eyes and he smirks, "and your families." Because he_ can. _It's amazing how quickly people agree after having their pathetic lives threatened. How quaint.

After that, everyone files quietly out of the board room, probably praying they don't ever have to do business with this scary little man ever again. Jim would like to tell them that the feeling's mutual, and that they're all sniveling idiots who should never waste his time again, but he can't, because that's just _unprofessional. _

It seems to take forever, but it was probably a matter of minutes when all of the pedestrian business people finally get the hell out of his board room, and he's left alone again. Sighing and rubbing his hand all over his face, he reflects that it probably wasn't the best idea ever to scare these people out of doing business with him, but he can't seem to bring himself to care. All he can focus on is the tempting weight of his cell phone resting in his Westwood pocket. He pulls it out, because why not? He's bored and there's nothing to do for the rest of the day (which may or may not have been on purpose) so why not send Johnny a text to let him know he's still there?

Why not?

**Hey, I'm actually really proud of this chapter. I like it… I hope y'all do too… but hey, pretty good for having a 101 degree fever and sweating and coughing and yuck. Like you wanted to know that. Please leave a comment, I love hearing from you lovelies! (I blame my fever on the use of y'all and lovelies in this a/n, yeesh, I must be sicker than I thought -.-)**


	9. King of Pain

**Thanks to all of your well wishes and a healthy dose of antibiotics, I am now back to 98.6! I have conquered bronchitis/pneumonia (the doctor wasn't really sure which it was, he didn't even know if it was bacterial or viral, he was very vague… I don't even know :p). So thanks for your patience with my whining and strange sickness writing and also, thanks loads for all of your reviews! **

**Big thank yous to: puretorture27, Tipear, bookworm0902, dianaj2w, Guest, Kim CC, and another Guest (Molly dear, thanks for the review, I appreciate it. I still don't know why you call me James, I have told you**_** multiple times **_**to call me **_**Jim!**_**)**

**Anyways, important announcement! PLEASE READ THIS... Unfortunately, this story is drawing to a close everyone. Oh no! There is one more chapter after this one, and it is an epilogue. BUT if you have read any of my past A/Ns, you'll know there is a sequel in the works right now, Unburied. Well, this is more of a prequel to Unburied than Unburied being the sequel, but anyways, that's not the point. The point is, Unburied has a high chance of being rated M for language and maybe **_**maybe **_**violence. If any of you have problems with this, I will take into consideration toning the plans down and rating it T. But that's only if I get enough feedback vetoing the M rating. It wouldn't be anything too graphic, but I'm just warning you. :) So, onwards to the story! P.S. This is not betaed, excuse mistakes please!**

Chapter 9

Doctor John Hamish Watson sat in his cozy chair opposite of Sherlock's with his head braced in his hand. His free hand grasped the paperback he was reading, Walden by Henry David Thoreau, and occasionally the quiet man would swap which hand was bracing his head to prevent stiffness. He had read the same passage over and over, and honestly, the story was boring, but it was the only book in the flat he hadn't read at one point or another. He could see why. It wasn't his type of book at all.

He contemplated calling Sherlock to inquire how the case was going, but he really didn't fancy faking all of the coughs that were supposed to be racking his body, so he decided not to. Besides, he already knew how the case was going. It was going as it always went, twisted and quirky and probably bloody. He looked at his watch. Sherlock had been gone for five hours, definitely bloody then. Sighing, he cast aside the book (not much of a loss there) and got up from the relative comfort of his armchair to grab the first aid kit. Sherlock wouldn't let anyone but John patch him up, claiming 'why have some imbecile stitch me up if I have my own competent doctor?' That was pretty pretentious of him, but John let him say it partially because it made him feel warm inside, and partially because if he didn't patch Sherlock up, then he wouldn't get aid at all. And that lead to blood on the carpet and a very pissed off Mrs. Hudson. No, it was just easier to go with it.

He was about to get the first aid kit from under his sink ("How domestic," Mycroft had sneered after a particularly nasty argument between a bloody Sherlock and a worried brother. "I absolutely refuse to go to the hospital, now PISS OFF!" Sherlock had bellowed in an uncharacteristic show of irritation) but he was halted in his tracks when his phone pinged a new text. Groaning with irritation he backtracked back into the sitting area to retrieve his phone.

~Blocked Number~

John made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. There were three possible people this could be. Mycroft was the most probable. The man texted him and called him all the time under the guise of inquiring about Sherlock's health, but John _knew _the man had the flat bugged seven ways to Sunday. John speculated in actuality he was trying to get proof that he was the assassin he had gotten his hands on all those years ago. That's unnerving. John still had nightmares about his session at Baskervilles ("John, John wake up! You're having a nightmare." John opened his eyes, to see a concerned Sherlock standing over his bed. He took a deep breath to dispel the image of the needles from his head, and Sherlock shifted awkwardly. "Do you… want to tell me what… it was about?" This was uncharted territory between them; Sherlock was trying to reach out, trying to _comfort _John. John Hamish Watson, the curiosity who made the sociopath care. He let out a shaky breath and lied, "Just another Afghanistan nightmare, nothing unusual." Sherlock nodded sympathetically).

Another person it could possibly be is Irene Adler, who had taken an unhealthy interest in him after meeting him alone in the warehouse (John strode confidently into the empty room. "Irene, I know you're here." She stepped gracefully out of the shadows, a look of bewilderment on her features. "John, how did you-" John cut her off, not wanting to tell her that he knew she had been alive this whole time and was just waiting for her to call him. "Unimportant. You need to tell Sherlock that you're still alive. He's driving me crazy with all of his pining." "No." she said petulantly. "He has my cell phone, which belongs to me, I want it…" "The pass code is "Sher-locked. Would you two just have sex already?"). While she texted Sherlock nonsense about having dinner, she constantly harassed John into giving her more background about himself. How irritating.

The third, and by far most unpleasant option was Moriarty himself, who had also taken a frightening interest in him. But unfortunately, Moriarty had gotten the closest in terms of his… past profession out of anyone. And that pissed him off, it truly did. So, now poor 'ordinary' John Watson had four crazy geniuses stalking him, if you included Sherlock. But Sherlock, bless his soul, was the only one who had permission to. It was almost like the old days. Almost.

Although he contemplated not opening it, his curiosity got the better of him, and he clicked 'view message' hesitantly.

'Johnny! What are you doing right now? –JM'

Damn. It was Moriarty. John really would have preferred it to be Irene. He put the phone down and didn't answer. He wasn't going to play Moriarty's game. He got up and went to get the first aid kit. When he came back, he had three new texts.

'Hello? Johnny? –JM'

'Is that even your real name? –JM'

'Hello? –JM'

John grit his teeth in irritation. The _nerve _of some people. At the very least, could Moriarty act a bit… intimidating or frightening? It was creepy how it seemed the Irishman was trying to get buddy buddy with him.

'Sod off.' He typed back quickly. He pressed send and immediately regretted it when another text was bounced back.

'Oh splendid! I was beginning to worry you didn't know how to text. –JM'

John decided that it wouldn't be wise to have a text conversation with a crazy psychopath. It would probably get people killed or something. John rolled his eyes.

'Rude. –JM' He could practically see the outrageous pout of Moriarty's face, quickly replaced by a smirk.

'Why don't you run along and play with Sherlock?' He typed this one out slowly, weighing his words carefully. While he didn't like Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock very much either, it was a lot safer for all parties involved.

'Because, he's boring. –JM'

'He wasn't boring a couple months ago.'

'I beat him, Johnny Boy. Back at the pool, he was completely at my mercy. I have already won. And now I'm bored again. –JM'

'It's a lot less dangerous to play with him. You're out of your league.'

'I think you underestimate me, Dr. Watson :( -JM'

'You haven't given me any reason not to.'

'I can change that easily. Don't think I don't know anything about you. –JM'

'Who's your source?'

There was a long pause.

'A magician never reveals his secrets. –JM'

'It was Houdini wasn't it.' He should have killed the kid when he blew his shoulder to hell. Now he was in a world of trouble.

'You got me. He told me not to tell… -JM'

'He shouldn't have trusted you, obviously.'

'You don't think I'm trustworthy? I'm wounded! –JM'

'Listen. It's a lot safer for all of us if you go away.'

'Why? –JM'

'I'll give you three guesses.'

'Mycroft. –JM'

'Well done. Now grow up and leave me alone.'

'Once a killer, always a killer. –JM'

'I'm retired.'

'We'll see about that. Goodnight, Dr. Watson. Knock Knock… -JM'

There was a knock at the door and John nearly dropped the phone.

"Come in," he called, trying to keep the fatigue out of his voice. Mrs. Hudson peeked in.

"Sherlock called and said he won't be home until tomorrow."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," John sent the pleasant woman a genuine smile. Mrs. Hudson smiled back.

"Goodnight."

And the door shut behind her. John listened to her retreating footsteps and turned back to his phone. He read over the texts and groaned. How was he baited into talking with him? He told himself he _wasn't _going to talk to the psychopath, and here he was having a fireside chat with him. What the hell was wrong with him?

0o0o0o0o

Jim Moriarty shut his phone off, marveling at his dialogue with John. He wasn't expecting to have an actual conversation; he just thought he would harass him a bit. Johnny had surprised him, again, and Jim wasn't sure if he was excited or peeved. He settled for both.

One thing was for sure… John Watson was scared of Mycroft Holmes. Should he be too? He knew if he managed to get into Mycroft's custody he would be tortured, but it wouldn't be too extensive because he was somewhat of a 'civilian'. Johnny hadn't been protected by that title. So, what had to have happened to him to have him bury all of his instincts and weapons under a dopey ordinary facade? Something horrible.

He also had to do something about Sherlock. He had been fun for a while, but Jim hadn't been lying when he had said he had already won. He had. He had outsmarted Sherlock and had him at his mercy. Even if he showed leniency, doesn't mean he didn't win. It just meant Sherlock didn't die. Somehow, that didn't register in Sherlock's (admittedly) complicated hard drive. It was over. Jim just had to tie things up in a nice little bow to convince Sherlock it was. He also had to get him out of the way so he could have time to finally play with John without Sherlock getting suspicious and poking about.

Thus, Richard Brook was born.

**Hello! This was the final chapter (besides epilogue) of this prequel. One more chapter, then keep an eye out for the next installment. This, by the way, is set during ASiB, before HoB. Get my drift? Jim has yet to be captured and interrogated by Mycroft. The epilogue will take place during Reichenbach, and Unburied is post-Reichenbach. I hope you've all enjoyed this story :)**

**Thanks for all the story alerts, favorites and reviews. Drop a comment; I love to hear from my readers! Remember, I want feedback on Unburied rating… thinking of making it M, but if there are too many objections I will make it T. **

**Love, Expecto-Prongs**


	10. Epilogue

**Well, this is it folks! The epilogue! Then, on comes the sequel. Sorry it took so long to update, I went to Seeds of Peace for two weeks, and that means… no internet. But now, I will update. **

**Thanks to Tipear, Bookworm0902, and junkie munkie for the reviews!**

**Thanks to AnAppleADayKeepsTheMoriartyA way, bookworm0902, chubbybunny96, EccoGamer, FrozenDreamBox, IzzyDelta, johahptw, lalunaticscribe, Lightning Skies, Naru137, Tipear, wolfblade17, xxsarah92xx for the favorites!**

**Thanks to alexandra101, AlfadortheCat, bamf1010, bookgirl 121, bookworm0920, chubbybunny96, dianaj2w, EccoGamer, Fallen Outcast, FrozenDreamBox, IzzyDelta, jinx1435, Kim CC, Lady Icestorm, Lightning Skies, madscientistsuz, midsummernightdreamer, Pachax, Phoenix-021, puretorture27, Rem di Luna, Somnia Obscura, sss396, Tipear, VaticanCameos, WhenTheDarknessFalls, Yami Uzi, and Yarataro for the story alerts!**

**Thanks to Labyrinth Mind for adding my story to your community 'mine'. I am honored.**

**And finally, thanks to everyone who stuck through and read the whole thing, even if you left no footprints. I love you too. **

**And now, FINALLY, the final chapter of Houdini.**

Jim Moriarty stared dispassionately over the edge of the building where his adversary had just fallen. It was so easy, so fucking easy to make him jump… to make him ruin himself. Oh, he knew that the devil was still alive, of course he was. If he could fake a suicide, so could Sherlock. But, he had walled Sherlock into the ditch he had jumped into, making him believe that if he showed his face ever again, assassins would blow holes into the heads of the three people he cared about. And they would, too. Okay, maybe they wouldn't kill Johnny, but Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were fair game.

Moriarty had carefully bought himself time alone with Johnny, at least two years of it. It would take time for Sherlock to track down the assassins and kill them without showing himself… it would take even longer to track down the back up assassins and kill them too. Oh, he would do it, Jim had no doubts about that, but it would take time. And by the time he will have returned, the triumphant victor of Baker Street, it will have been too late. Johnny would be either unburied or broken. Maybe both. But either way, he would belong to _Jim, _not Sherlock.

The man in the Westwood suit turned away from the scene unfolding below, little Johnny Boy running to his detective, horrified, paramedics swarming, boring, boring, boring. He eyed the pool of fake blood where he had fallen with distaste before flipping out his phone. He dialed Sebastian, who was number one on his speed dial. The sharpshooter picked up on the second ring.

"Boss?"

"Daddy's done, Sebby, you can pick me up now."

"Yes sir." The phone connection died and Jim walked towards the pool of 'his' blood and eyed it thoughtfully. He tilted his head to the side and poked the tip of his expensive shoe into it, watching it fluctuate as his foot made contact. He retreated back when three men showed up.

"Clean this up," he said softly, lost in thoughts. "I want no trace that I was here. Sherlock Holmes has committed suicide, I am not real. Therefore, I was not there." The men didn't say anything, they just nodded and got to work. Jim turned on his heel and made his exit.

After changing into less conspicuous clothes, the spider walked among the flies of London, never even being acknowledged or recognized for the threat he was. A seemingly normal cab picked him up, and drove him away away away from his life filled with Sherlock and Mycroft and boring ordinary people, and towards his future with his new adversary John. And he swore to himself, once he was done with Johnny, they would all burn.

**Welp, that's it. Really short and really crappy, but whatever. It's an epilogue! I have permission to make no sense. Anyways, THANK YOU EVERYONE~ the next story should come out soon… Unburied. Yep. But, until then, I'm going to recommend some stories for y'all!**

**There but for the grace of John Watson by skyfullofstars - It's a trilogy with a lot of hurt John and protective Sherlock. And damn evil Moriarty. I loved it. The sequel, Boys of Baker Street (which features the greatest BAMF John ever, where do you think my addiction to BAMF John originated?) has porn, but hey, that's what scrolling's for! **

**And…**

**Don't Touch Me by Sherlock bbcfanfiction (put a period between Sherlock and bbcfanfiction) - featuring a good amount of BAMF John, and creepy Moriarty and some Sherlock too. Mild slash, rated T, and John's a telepath. It's really good. **

**SO, happy reading, and I hope I'll have the sequel out soon! **

**Please review, this is the last chapter, therefore your last chance. **

**Ciao, **

**Expecto-prongs**

**11-6: The sequel "Unburied" is out by now, well more like three months ago. Better late than never...? Anyways, it's rated T for language and some violence. If you liked Houdini I'd go check it out!**


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